


An Extra Shot

by Skalidra



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Family Bonding, Family Issues, Gen, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Relationship(s), What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23663800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: "He's in the hospital," he says, forcing himself to say it slower, steadier. "And Adeline is—" The words fail him, for a moment. The word, singular. He takes another breath. "She's gone. Killed. I couldn't—"Couldn't save her. Couldn't save either of them. He made a stupid gamble and lost, and now… Now he has a son, right in front of him, that he drove away a long time ago.Slade's teeth set together. "They were attacked," he lies, partially, "and I didn't get there in time." It's hard to say, but he gathers the words and starts with, "I understand that you hate me; I don't blame you. But you need to come home, Grant. For them, not me. Tell me what I need to do to make that happen."
Relationships: Adeline Kane Wilson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 49
Kudos: 160





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This is just an idea that came into my head a while back, and I'm finally posting the first chapter. A 'what-if' scenario that has Adeline die during Joey's kidnapping, leaving Slade with three kids and his own fucked up self. It should be pretty much Gen, Wilson family feels. Enjoy!
> 
> (Also yes, family and I are okay, but time has lost all meaning. I'll try to be a bit better about posting things in coming times.)

Grant tries to slam the door in his face the second he sees him. It's easy to catch it with his palm, hold it open against the shove. Less easy to brush aside that flicker of bright fear in his son's eyes, when he realizes he can't shut it. That tiny twist in his chest compounds on itself when Grant takes a step back, framed by the door still, but distinctly out of arm's reach.

(How many times did he barge into his son's room just like this? Had he ever hit him, afterwards? Was it only him or did Adeline—?)

"Grant."

There's a moment of hesitation, where Grant's gaze flickers to the side. A window, maybe fire escape? Or maybe he's just judging whether he can make it to the next room before Slade catches up.

His weight settles. "Dad."

Slade takes his hand off the door, but he doesn't step forward over the threshold. If Grant wants his space, he can have it. It's too important that— He'll give what he has to, to ensure cooperation. Negotiating here isn't much different than a contract; he's usually the one being bought, not the one buying, but he knows the mechanics well enough.

"You need to come home," he says, without preamble. "There's a car downstairs. I can buy you anything you need once we're—"

"Like hell! I don't know how the hell you found me but I'm not going back there. Not ever. You can't just show up and—"

"Joey's been hurt," he snaps, sharper than he means to.

Grant's mouth snaps closed.

Slade forces himself to take a breath, to keep a grip on that tight ball of tension and fury in his gut that's been there ever since he washed the blood of his wife and son off his hands.

"He's in the hospital," he says, forcing himself to say it slower, steadier. "And Adeline is—" The words fail him, for a moment. The word, singular. He takes another breath. "She's gone. Killed. I couldn't—"

Couldn't save her. Couldn't save either of them. He made a stupid gamble and lost, and now… Now he has a son, right in front of him, that he drove away a long time ago.

Grant's face has paled. "I… What happened? Dad?"

His teeth set together. "They were attacked," he lies, partially, "and I didn't get there in time." It's hard to say, but he gathers the words and starts with, "I understand that you hate me; I don't blame you. But you need to come home, Grant. For them, not me. Tell me what I need to do to make that happen."

His son looks at him like he's not processing the words right, big stunned eyes and pale skin. But Slade makes himself wait, and finally Grant takes a deep breath and steps back, a hand rising to rake back through his hair.

"Okay, yeah. Yeah, I'll come." Another breath, color coming back to his cheeks as he meets Slade's gaze. "But I don't owe you anything. You don't get to tell me what to do, you don't touch me, and when I want to leave, I will, and you don't get to stop me."

Acceptable.

"Deal."

Even if he didn't have enhanced senses and a lifetime of experience in reading people, the surprise would be easy enough to see. That's fair. He was controlling when Grant was a boy, he knows that. It's not unreasonable to have expected him to refuse to make any concessions. But he…

Joey needs his brother. He needs someone better at all this than Slade is, and his options aren't exactly widespread. Billy's already there — the only person Slade would trust to keep watch over his son, in his absence — and Isherwood isn't anywhere local at the moment. Besides, Isherwood is an ally, but only on the edge of being a friend to his boys. If Adeline were still here, he'd trust her to keep an eye on him, but without her, he— No.

"Get whatever you need," he orders, "the car's at the curb."

“I just…” Grant looks back into the apartment, gaze skipping like it can’t find somewhere to settle. “I need to leave a note, and— Just a couple things.”

He could cross the threshold, follow Grant inside and take a look at where his son lives, as he packs. Identify roommates, or a girlfriend, if there is one, or—

“I’ll be downstairs.”

Grant only tosses a distracted agreement over his shoulder, already hurrying deeper into the apartment. Slade turns away and heads back to the car, bypassing the stillness of the elevator to take the stairs instead. Fifth floor. Near the local college; registered under his own name. Grant left, but he doesn’t know how to hide. He’s lucky that Slade didn’t choose to track him down before this, because it was easy. Way too easy.

The car’s not parked legally, but no one’s bothered it. Slade gets back in and starts it again, flicking the hazard lights on and leaning back, his gaze trained towards the complex’s doors.

He should fix this. Get Grant an alternate name and papers, if he’s going to be on his own. If he’s alone, not knowing how to hide, or fight, he’s a target. Slade can’t always be there to protect him, and if someone comes for him like they did Adeline, and— It’s too dangerous. He could have lost Grant too, if anyone had gone for him. He could still—

Metal creaks.

On reflex, Slade releases his grip. His gaze jerks away from the door, immediately finding the imprint of his fingers left in the wheel. Damnit.

He eyes it, considering whether he can bend it back with just his hands without fully breaking it, but the sound of the door opening comes to his ears before he decides. He drops a hand over the imprint, turning his head to watch Grant hurry across the sidewalk, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He leans over the divide enough to pop the door, pushing it open just before his son gets there so he can slide in more quickly.

He pulls the car away from the curb as Grant stores his backpack down by his feet.

“What did you bring?”

Grant lifts his head from fastening the seatbelt. He’s still got some of that wide-eyed look; processing, he’ll start asking questions soon enough. “Uh… phone, wallet, some clothes. Toothbrush?”

It’s good enough. Not everything he’ll need, but enough for a couple days. He'll buy anything else Grant figures out he wants, whenever he decides to admit it, for however long he stays. (If he stays. He’s taking college classes, has a local job to pay expenses, and roommates, apparently. It’s no more than Adeline left behind to have him in the first place, but still.)

"Anything else you need, let me know," is all Slade says out loud, as he runs the route through his mind. A few turns to get on the freeway, then the flight, and they should be back long before anything has the chance to go wrong.

Billy will keep his son safe for long enough, and he'll call if anything happens, or anyone else comes to finish the job. He’ll have to spend some time tracking every last member of those idiots down; no one gets to harm his family without consequence. No one stays alive that can link his real name and the stupid moniker either, not after—

“Where are we going?”

Slade blinks, pushing aside the bloody vision of exactly what he’s going to do to the men that ordered the attack on his son. “Home. There’s a plane waiting that’ll get us back to Kentucky; Joey’s in the next town over. Billy’s with him for now."

Just far enough to take him away from Slade’s home territory, just far enough that he couldn’t get there before Adeline did. If he’d just picked up the damn phone the first time she called…

“Is he…?” Grant’s voice falters. “Is he okay?”

He has to restrain the reflex to tighten his grip, inhaling slow and forcing the anger deeper into his chest before he speaks. “He’ll live. He’s out of surgery, but they said he wouldn’t be awake till tomorrow at the earliest. We’ll be back before then.”

Grant’s smart enough to pick up on the things he doesn’t say. He can feel the gaze burning into the side of his face, but pretends he doesn’t.

Finally, his voice even weaker than before, Grant asks, “What happened? You said there was an attack?”

Slade hasn’t worked through exactly what he’s going to tell Grant. Either of them, actually. The truth won’t do anything but make them blame him for what happened — not that they’d be wrong to — and there’s too much else around it to explain, for now. Explaining the kidnapping means explaining Deathstroke, and that means explaining the mercenary work, the less-than-legal black ops work the government used him for, and the initial experiments on top of that. Too much, for right now.

Introducing Rose will be hell enough; a version of the truth will have to do.

Carefully, he adjusts his grip on the wheel. “Some of the work the military had me do made enemies. One of them tracked down where we lived, and took Joey. Your mother found out first; didn’t wait for me.” He exhales slowly enough that he doesn’t feel like he has to grind his teeth to stay calm. “I didn’t get there in time. There was nothing I could do.”

Not true. He could have played along, passed whatever information the bastards wanted to them and waited for any moment of inattention. He could have picked up the damn phone when Adeline called, instead of leaving her to go after their son on her own. He could have _been there_ , instead of pretending to take yet another job in yet another foreign country, away from his wife and his family and too far to protect them. He could have never started taking on the damned mercenary work to begin with.

(He could have waited to go find Rose, and not sacrificed his wife and son for a daughter he'd never even met.)

"Oh." Out of the corner of his eye he sees Grant look away, out through the window. "Alright."

Slade lets the silence fill the air. He knows a better father would be offering comfort, or at least trying to reassure, but he's never been that. The best he can do is try not to aim any of his anger or frustration at a target that doesn't deserve it. That'd be better than he ever managed when Grant was growing up; he was never very good at the parenting thing, once they grew old enough to talk. If they're being honest, Adeline wasn't much better, but Slade's at least aware enough to realize bringing that up now is inappropriate. Trying to discredit what she gave won't fix any of his own shortcomings.

Dying cures a lot of sins. Besides, she might not have been much better suited to being a parent than he was, but she was around; that counts for something.

"Dad, did Mom…? I mean, was it…?"

He wishes he didn't know what that quavering, hesitant question is. Wishes it didn't flash the image in his head of the backwards snap of her head on impact, the dead eyes, the pool of blood. It still feels like he should have had her blood on him, but the angle of the spray was never towards him, and by the time he'd finished eliminating the threat it was clear enough she was dead. There was never a need to check; Joey needed his attention far more than a corpse did.

The breath feels too shallow for his chest, the wheel flimsy under the grip of his hands. "It was fast. She probably didn't even feel it."

It _is_ flimsy; nothing but metal and plastic. Slade could snap it in half with just a squeeze of his hands. It wouldn't satisfy, though. It won't be anything like snapping the necks — or limbs, or spines — of the rest of the men responsible for all this.

Grant doesn't know he's enhanced, anyway. No one but Billy does. (Maybe if he'd told Adeline, she would have waited for him, let him handle things. Or maybe she’d have left him, taken his sons, and they wouldn’t have been targets in the first place.)

He sees Grant, still from the corner of his eye, turn further towards the window, elbow coming up to brace on the door. His head turns into it, and if Slade were normal, maybe that would have been enough. But he can hear the hitch of breath, see the slight movement of his nearest shoulder.

Crying. Grant's crying.

Slade's aware, on a rational and logical level, that he's different than before he took the serum. In a physical way, with his hair and build, but on a mental one as well. It's not that he's a different person, but he's smarter than he was before, and that intelligence makes him see things differently, think them through more than he did when he was normal. On a rational level, he's aware that he emulated all the worst parts of his own father when it came to raising his sons. He's aware, likewise, that the military only enforced those parts of him, leaving him stuck in a mindset that didn't let him see emotion as anything but weakness, and classified disobedience as unacceptable. Especially when it came to Grant.

Recognizing it is one thing, fixing it something entirely different. Slade doesn't know how to fix the fact that Grant's afraid to cry in front of him, even about the death of his own mother. He's never known how to handle emotional displays like that; becoming a super soldier didn't suddenly give him that ability. There's still a little part of him that wants to sneer and mock the tears, even if it's an urge that's easier to shut down, now.

Maybe the best he can do is just not repeat his past mistakes. No yelling, no criticizing, no cuffing Grant upside the head for being 'weak.' Just let it be.

The rest of the drive is silent, save for the quiet sounds from Grant. By the time they arrive at the airfield, though, he’s only red-eyed and sniffling. There are no tear tracks — a frantic scrub of his face as they parked got rid of them, Slade assumes — but the cuff of his sleeve is wet. Slade pretends he doesn’t notice.

The plane’s not the same kind of private jet that his employers tend to pay for him to fly in, but it will serve well enough to get them where they need to go. Short notice means limited choice, and he's not interested in waiting for a nicer plane to fly here just to hop a few states. The idea of sitting and waiting, while Joey lies unconscious in a hospital bed, is completely unacceptable. He'd steal and fly a damn plane himself if he had to.

Luckily for the local owners, there was a pilot willing to do the flight for a sizable bundle of cash. Slade doesn’t care about the cost, and money like that does tend to buy silence like very little else. At least until a bigger sum comes along.

He leaves the keys on the driver’s seat, and Grant follows him towards the plane without prompting, backpack slung over his shoulder.

The pilot’s waiting at the ramp leading up, semi-formal clothes, middling age and very little memorable about him. Slade knows he’ll remember the greying edges of his hair and the slight extra weight visible on his stomach and neck, regardless. He remembers everything, somewhere in the back of his mind. He’ll remember this man, just like he’ll remember the face of every man that contributed to killing Adeline. Every varying expression from just before their deaths. Every sound they made.

“Fueled up and ready to go,” the man — Jackson, but what does he care? — says, with the nervous kind of smile that mild-mannered men usually give when they first come face to face with him. “Is this your son?”

Easy guess, given the age difference and the similarities in their features. He doesn’t have the time or the patience for stupid questions right now.

“Yes,” he answers, and shoulders past the man and up the ramp, ducking to clear the hatch. He can hear the slight sputtering behind him, but ignores it in favor of sweeping his gaze across the cabin.

Mostly clean, just a few seats; small passenger load, short range jumps. It’ll work fine.

He takes one of the aisle seats in the middle of the six rows, equidistant from the pilot and the back of the plane, and every exit. Just in case. Grant’s only a few seconds behind him, hesitating at the front of the cabin before slowly choosing the opposite row, window seat. He buckles in immediately; Slade waits until the pilot’s shut the cabin door and started up the plane. When they lift off the ground, Slade feels a tiny bit of the tension in his shoulders ease loose.

Just a couple hours, now. Nothing more he can do but wait. No reception once they reach cruising altitudes, not even with the tech on his phone, and there’s no useful calls he could make even if he did have it. Grant’s not going to welcome conversation. Wouldn’t be any good at that, anyway. As frustrating as it is, there’s nothing productive to spend his time on until they land.

Well, almost nothing.

Exhaling against the pressure in his ears, Slade crosses his arms and leans back into the too-small chair, stretching his legs out as far as the narrow space will allow. He fixes his gaze loosely on the back of the pilot’s chair, and lets his mind drift to other things. Every name and face he remembers being associated with the piece of shit that came after his family. Every single person that wasn’t there to taste his immediate vengeance. He’ll track the rest of them down, with a bit of time.

Every _single_ one.

* * *

By the time they land, Slade has a list in his head of all the details. Every name, the faces of the ones he doesn’t know, where they frequent, who might know where they are now… Which idiots would still help them hide, when it inevitably gets out that they tried to go after Deathstroke's family. It’s a starting point, at least.

The pilot seems glad to be rid of them. Slade couldn’t care less what the man thinks of him.

The car’s waiting just outside the private airstrip, just where Billy promised it would be, the key tucked up on top of one of the tires. No messages from him yet; everything must still be in a holding pattern. (Or, a treacherous, paranoid part of his brain suggests, he’s dead, and so is Joey.) Despite that paranoia, he makes himself drive smoothly and more or less within the speed limits, tamping down the urge to go faster, get there sooner. Getting pulled over, or getting into a crash because some other idiot driver panics at his speed, won't help.

Airstrip’s still an hour away from the hospital, at a reasonable speed. It crawls.

When the signs for the hospital finally do come into view, it takes every bit of patience he’s learned in his career to stay steady. To drive in, park, get out of the car, and wait for Grant instead of just sprinting to Joey’s room.

 _Slow_ , Slade reminds himself, pausing to lock the car and make sure Grant has his backpack. Running will draw attention he doesn’t want, and it won’t change anything.

(It might, if there are assassins or thugs already in the room. If he walks maybe he doesn’t make it. But then, if he runs, he leaves Grant behind, open to attack. There are too many angles, too many vulnerabilities.)

Walk. Don't run.

Grant follows at his heels as he enters the hospital, skips the waiting room and slips right through to the elevator and higher levels. Critical care, post-op recovery rooms. The room number was the last update he got from Billy, along with a snapshot of his son lying in the bed. Worryingly small, pale, dwarfed by the machines keeping him breathing through his slit throat. Another image committed to the perfect recall of his new memory. One that, for now, he'll keep buried in the pit of his stomach; motivation to wipe out the bastards that did this.

Slade doesn't let himself hesitate before opening the door, and he doesn't pause before he walks in. A quick flick of his gaze scans the room, all possible exits and entrances catalogued, his enhanced sight letting him see right into the shadowed corners. No one except his son and Billy, who’s half-risen from his chair with one hand in the pocket of his coat.

He exhales and straightens up the rest of the way the next moment, frowning. "Damnit, Slade. You could have told me you were here."

"Could have," he agrees, but his gaze fixes on his son and stays there. Joey is still apart from the rise and fall of his chest, lower half below the sheets. Slade’s eyes linger on the bandages around his throat, wrapped over heavy gauze, and he has to fight to keep his hands from clenching. He moves across the room, eyeing the machines Joey’s hooked up to. "Any update?”

"Nothing new. He should live; that they're sure of. They're waiting on a few more things to give any further diagnosis." The door clicks shut again with a faint rattle of the blinds, and Billy’s voice softens, immediately. "Grant."

He listens as he looks at the machines. He’s not any sort of a medic — basic first aid was as far as training went, and now he heals too fast for it to have mattered to him — but he can make decent guesses about most of the functions.

“Hi.” Grant’s voice is low, wary.

The IV for essential fluids, a bag of blood included; one to keep him breathing, bypassing the need for his throat to work; the monitors, at arm and finger, to make sure they know if anything goes terribly wrong. It all looks… steady.

He hears Billy’s footsteps cross the room, and a crinkle of fabric, exhale of breath. “It’s good to see you, boy.”

Slade can hear the faint sniffle too, muffled by fabric. Probably inaudible, to normal people. It’s one of the many lines he walks; only reacting to what a normal human would.

After a moment, Grant says, “You too,” in a slightly shaky voice. A glance shows him his son leaned into Billy, head hidden down against his chest. He’s still small. Not as small as Joey, but it’s just a few years difference; who knows whether either of them will grow as big as he is.

He doesn’t know whether his height is natural or not; his own father was tall, but he doesn’t remember the number and doesn’t care to. It’s possible Grant and Joey (and Rose) might get to his height, or maybe the only reason Slade’s as tall as he is is because of the serum, and his children won’t be near as tall. No way to know but to wait and find out.

Never been good at that. Slade only remembers his sons’ growth in snapshots; bits of time where he was home. Adeline only sent him pictures at the very start.

There’s a knock on the door.

It’s probably lucky that Grant isn’t looking at him, because Slade’s sure his head turns faster than a normal human's could. He focuses on the faint shadow behind the door, straining his ears and eyes for any sign to give away who it is. Average height on the shadow, only the faint sound of normal shoes when the knob of the door turns. He coils himself to spring.

The figure that steps through the door is a familiar one, however. Scrubs, a file folder tucked under one arm, black hair and hazel eyes. The doctor that performed the surgery on his son. Harrison, he believes.

“Mr. Wintergreen?” Harrison’s gaze sweeps the room, and finds him. “Ah, Mr. Wilson, you’re back. Good timing; I’ve got the results—”

He cuts off as he sees Grant, pulled slightly away from Billy’s side. Hesitates. Slade hasn’t got the patience to wait out some misguided attempt at privacy.

“What’s the news?” he demands, crossing his arms.

There's another glance at Grant and Billy, but then the doctor exhales and steps forward to stand at the opposite side of the bed from him, pulling the folder out from under his arm. "Well, your son's stable, and it doesn't look like there have been any complications related to the surgery. That's the good news."

And of course, there's always bad, isn't there?

"Well?" he prompts, when Harrison looks at him slightly warily.

He’s got enough balls to just take a steadying breath, shift the folder in front of his chest, and say, “Unfortunately, Joseph’s vocal cords were damaged in the attack. Given the severity of the damage, it’s highly likely that your son will be mute for the rest of his life. I’m sorry; there’s nothing we could do.”

Mute.

“There’s a slim chance that some functionality might be regained with treatment, and therapy, but in my professional opinion that’s not something I’d put much hope in. There are plenty of ways to live with an injury like this, though. I have some reading for you, so you’re in the best position to help—”

“I understand.”

The doctor blinks at him. “Mr. Wilson, I’m not sure—”

“I said I understand.”

“Okay. Well then, here’s the information. Staff will be in and out to check on Joseph, if you have any questions, please feel free to ask one of them or give me a call. I’ll leave you alone with your son; he should wake up soon enough.”

Slade takes the folder only because Harrison doesn’t stop holding it out over the bed until he does. Only then does the man retreat towards the door, with a last nod in the direction of where Billy and Grant are standing. Billy looks stiff. Grant’s eyes are wide.

He drops the folder at the foot of the bed the second the door shuts.

Billy gives a quiet sigh, putting an arm around Grant’s shoulders. “Come on, Grant. You and your father can’t have eaten anything substantial on the flight. Leave your bag here; we’ll go get something for all of us.”

“But— Dad?”

Slade tears his gaze away from the bed. “It’s fine. I’ll watch him.”

Judging by the hard look Billy gives him, it’s not the answer he should have given. That’s nothing new, though. Grant looks a bit hurt, too. Also not new.

“We’ll bring something back for you,” Billy says through the frown, steering Grant towards the door. “Call us if anything happens.”

He doesn't offer any agreement, and Billy doesn't seem to feel the need to wait for one, unlike the doctor. He drags one of the chairs in the room closer to the bed as the door closes. Takes a seat, as their footsteps move down the hallway outside, and Billy says something in a murmur low enough even he can't hear it.

Joey hasn't moved an inch. His chest is still rising and falling, in time with the slight movements of the machine facilitating his breathing, but there hasn't been even a twitch, otherwise. Slade would have caught it.

Mute.

His hands clasp together in his lap.

It doesn't matter. Joey's alive; that's the part he cares about, and all that's going to matter going forward. All he has to do is keep Joey safe until he's back home. After that… He'll figure it out. He wasn't a good father before and he doubts he'll be one now, but he'll keep both of them safe, whatever it takes.

One of his fingers snaps with a sharp flash of pain.

Slade blinks, slightly startled, and pulls his hands apart. Middle finger, right hand. He frowns and fixes it with a quick jerk, baring his teeth at the ache but knowing it'll be gone soon enough. Clean break, already reset; it'll heal before anyone else notices.

 _Mute_.

It doesn't matter. Not at all.

He crosses his arms instead, and resumes his vigil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to more of Slade trying his (very shitty) best to be a dad. Enjoy!

By the way Grant looks at him when he and Billy come back to the room, Billy did a bit more of a thorough explanation of what happened than Slade did. There's wariness there, pain, grief… No anger, though, so presumably Billy kept all the mercenary parts out of it. Rose, too. Presumably.

He'll have to collect her, at some point. She's safer than his boys are — no one knows she's his daughter, at least — but that doesn't mean it's fair to her to let her stay in their neighbor's house for much longer. Not fair to the neighbor, either, but Slade couldn't give two shits about them; they were Adeline's friends, not his. He only knows them through miscellaneous gatherings, when he happened to be around. They have a son Joey's age, which is probably why she bothered making friends at all.

They're harmless; Slade made sure of that the moment he knew his son was spending time with them.

"Here," Billy says, dropping a bag in his lap that reeks of salt and grease. "Eat."

He's getting bits of meat, too. Onion. "I'm not hungry."

Billy's in the midst of ushering Grant to the other open seat, but he still immediately counters with, "Yes you are."

He shoots Billy a sharp look, but only gets a snort.

"Don't be petulant. Eat the damn food, Slade.”

He’s fine. He can go a lot longer without food, which Billy should know. His body runs much more efficiently than a normal man’s. Not that it would hurt to take the tactical opportunity to refuel, while he has the option. It’s not necessary, but it could be useful, if he needs to take his sons and run. There’s still the chance that the kidnappers were only the first wave of threat.

It’s two hamburgers. Basic. Wouldn’t be his choice of meal, but it will do.

“Any further word?” Billy asks.

"No."

No doctors, no nurses, and none of his contacts have reached out to him for any reason. No jobs, no information, no communication. It's better that way; he can track these men down on his own, he doesn't need to rely on anyone else's information. If anyone does reach out to him about it, well, all they've done is added themselves to his list of people to be eliminated. If they've heard of the attack on his family, then they either know someone that's been bragging, or they were involved in it from the start.

He hopes they all hide. He hopes they make it difficult. He wants the satisfaction of proving to each and every one of them that there's no such thing as safety when it comes to him.

"Well, there's nothing for it but to wait, I suppose." From the corner of his eye, he sees Billy squeeze Grant's shoulder. "I'm going to step outside. Check on a few things. I won't be long."

"Fine."

Billy doesn't actually move till Grant voices a quieter, "Okay." Then he turns and leaves, shutting the door again with a faint rattle of the blinds.

The burger's are alright. Not stale, anyway, which is better than he can say for most fast food. The enhanced taste buds didn't do him any favors there; it's not a blessing to be able to taste exactly what's in food, or whether it's even the slightest bit off. There are things he could have done without knowing. (At least it doesn't particularly matter what he puts in his body. Any sufficient caloric intake will do; his body will turn anything into energy, as long as he gives it enough. In that way, substandard meat is fine.)

He pretends he doesn't see how Grant is fidgeting, his fingers twisting the fabric of his pants between them. Gathering and releasing, and shifting in the chair every few seconds like he can't find a comfortable position. He doesn't speak, though. Not until Slade's finished the burgers, at least, and stuffed the wrappers back into the bag to throw out whenever he next steps outside. Not that he has any intention of doing that anytime soon. There's probably a trashcan in the bathroom; he'll use that.

There's about twenty more seconds of silence before Grant works up the nerve, fingers twisting together instead of at his pants. "Dad?"

"What?"

It's only after Grant — badly — suppresses a flinch that he realizes his tone was probably too harsh. Billy would be glaring at him, if he were here. He has a better handle on all of… that. The tones and words and what's the right thing to say and what isn't. There's still a large part of him that thinks it's all just a waste of time. Obviously it's not, because Grant's 'don't touch' rule doesn't seem to apply to Billy, but it's so much effort to try and deny every first instinct he has to make everything gentle and palatable instead.

Whatever he sounded like, it isn't enough to stop Grant from continuing, after a few seconds. "What's going to happen after Joey wakes up?"

(He's going to go hunt down every one of the bastards that thought they could get away with this. Slit their throats in the name of his son.)

"I'm taking him home," Slade says, pulling his thoughts away from that image. "Your room's still there if you want it. Pretty sure your mother didn't clean it out."

Grant pauses. No one normal would be able to hear him swallow, but Slade can. "Same rules?"

No touching. No orders. Grant leaves when he wants, and Slade doesn't stop him.

"Same rules," he agrees.

He'd thought that would make Grant relax, but it only seems to make him tenser, instead. His mouth opens, closes, and then opens again with a deep breath, like he's steeling himself. "What if I don't want it?"

Slade doesn't stiffen; he's better than that. But he does turn his head and look at Grant head on, for the first time. There's wariness there, fear, but anger, too. (It's the same mix of emotion that was in his eyes in the forest that day, when he ran away.) He looks poised to move. Or snap. Obviously he's not really asking, not with the expectation of getting a real answer, anyway. It's just a test, to see if Slade will hold to his word now that they're alone.

He considers, silently.

It's not safe for Grant to be out by himself, not until Slade's made sure that anyone that can link him to Deathstroke is dead and buried. It wouldn't be safe for him anyway; he didn't exactly lie, before, there are plenty of people from his days working for the government that bear grudges. Grant's young. Normal. He'd be helpless if anyone came after him. That's unacceptable. However, Grant's already on a hair trigger, and keeping him against his will won't work, tempting as it is.

So, his only option is to make sure that Grant is as safe as possible, even if he leaves. That means erasing all trace of 'Grant Wilson' from the world. He'll need a fake identity, and he'll need to know how to live in it. Won't be easy, but with Billy's help — and some other key contacts — he can make an airtight identity, not a problem. It might take longer than Grant is willing to stick around, though.

Well, then he can revisit the 'against his will' option. As long as Grant's safe at the end of it, it's alright if Slade makes things worse between them. His son will understand some day.

“I’ll make you a new identity; Billy can teach you how it works. When it’s ready, you can leave.”

Looking straight on, it's easy to see that's not a reassurance. "When it's ready?" Grant echoes, wariness edging out past the anger.

He bites down on his first impulse to mock the question. Grant heard him. It's not an issue of just confirming what was said, not with a tone like that. What, then?

It takes a couple seconds, studying his son's expression, to realize what Grant is getting at. 'When it's ready' could be anything, if you don't know anything about how to build identities. For all Grant knows, that could be months, or a year, or longer. It could be a complete lie. 'When it's ready' could mean that he keeps Grant hostage in their own house with a promise that's never going to happen. It isn't like he's done much of anything to win Grant's trust.

Slade brushes aside the irritated tinge at being questioned at all. Grant has every right to question. "Three weeks," he answers, "give or take. You'll need a few days to memorize the information, too."

"But then I can go?"

He shuts down the urge to grip his arms any tighter. "Yes."

That, finally, eases Grant's shoulders just a little. He takes a breath, and Slade pretends that he doesn’t hear the shake to it. "Okay."

It's a start. Probably.

Billy would know.

Grant doesn't seem to have anything else to say, so Slade turns his attention back to Joey. Watches the rise and fall of his chest, and the stillness of his hands, and nurtures the slow, cold rage building in his stomach.

He won't be able to go immediately. Joey will need to be taken home, cared for through the worst of it before Slade can go after the perpetrators. He can't wait too long, either. The longer he waits, the easier it will be for them to hide, or for the dumbest of them to decide to finish what they started. He can't go on the offensive without leaving the kids in Billy's hands, and Billy won't be enough if they send someone on the meta side. He can't— He _won't_ lose any of the rest of them.

The tread of heavy boots catches his attention, in the corridor. Completely unlike the softer shoes the hospital staff are wearing, two pairs of footsteps, purposeful stride but hesitating just enough to make it clear they're searching for something. Slade fixes his gaze on the door, coiling and pulling his back away from the chair to have easy access to the holster at his waist, under the fall of his jacket. Simple enough to disguise it as just leaning forward, as if he merely wanted to shift positions.

The boots stop in front of the door. The knob turns. Knuckles rap twice at the door frame as it opens.

Dark blue uniforms, badges hooked into belts. Cops.

"Slade Wilson?" one asks. Five-eleven, muscular, tidy uniform, brown eyes and black hair, on the young side. Name-tag says Dawson.

The other's a good ten years older, stepping in just behind him. Five-nine, military-looking short black hair, hazel eyes currently a mix between green and grey. Dress code's less stringent, no name tag and less gear on his belt, for starters. Detective, maybe. Would make sense.

"That's me," Slade confirms, holding Dawson's gaze but angling his attention towards the older one, following the sharp-eyed look towards Joey, then over to Grant. "Can I help you, officers?"

They step fully inside the door. Shut it behind them. "Mr. Wilson," Dawson continues, with a tip of his hat, "I'm Officer Dawson, this is Detective Kirkley. We're investigating the incident involving your wife and son, do you mind if we ask you a few questions?"

Of course; local law enforcement thinking they have any idea what happened. Another wrinkle to everything. Well, it isn't like there's anyone else to contradict whatever story he decides to tell. Joey isn't awake, can't speak, and is a minor, regardless. He's the only witness of any use.

"Sure." They look legitimate enough, and even if they aren't, he's fast enough to kill them before they can do any damage, as long as he's on guard.

Kirkley is the one to suggest, "It might be best if your… son leaves the room, Mr. Wilson." There's just enough of a pause to make it obvious the man is guessing at what Grant is.

"He can stay," Slade refutes, without looking to him. Grant will hear a lot worse than whatever these officers end up asking, may as well get it out of the way now.

Dawson's glance back at the detective makes it clear that it's not what they were expecting him to say, but the quirk of an eyebrow and a minuscule shrug shared between them settles it. "Alright. Could you tell us what occurred the night your son was attacked, sir?"

"Kidnapped," he corrects, first. Kirkley pulls out a pad of paper and a pen. Clicks the point out. "I was coming back from a business trip. Overseas. When I landed there was a voicemail from my wife; she said our son Joseph had been taken, and she was going after him. She left me the address the kidnappers had told her to meet them at; I followed as soon as I got it."

"She went alone?" Kirkley interrupts.

Slade resists the urge to be sarcastic, tempting as it is. "Yes."

Apparently the idiots either didn't do their homework or just share a sexist streak, because after another shared glance Dawson takes lead to ask, "Why wouldn't she wait for you?"

He holds Dawson's gaze steadily, and lets just a little of his irritation leak into his tone. "My wife was military just as long as I was, Officer. She would never have left our son in danger any longer than she had to, and she was perfectly capable of handling threats on her own."

" _Apparently not_ ," Kirkley mutters under his breath, so low only someone just next to him could possibly have heard.

Slade takes a slow breath and strangles the sharp desire to force those words back down Kirkley's throat. (Adeline deserves better than to be belittled by small-minded, useless cops judging her as a mother instead of a soldier.) "I got there just as the shooting started. She was killed, my son was injured. I got him to a hospital as fast as I could." Just before the shooting started, and it was his fault, but the only person who can contradict that is Joey.

"So, was it your wife that killed the kidnappers?" Kirkley's trying to hide the edge to his voice. He'd be doing a fine job of it if Slade's senses weren't far beyond a normal human's. This is the real point of the questions. They want to know who's responsible for the four men Slade left dead in that house.

They're welcome to that.

"No. I did."

Dawson tenses, a little. Kirkley stills for a good second, then begins to put away the paper and pen. "We're going to need you to come down to the station for questioning, Mr. Wilson."

He doesn't even need to consider that. He’s not leaving Joey here, and he’s not putting himself under any kind of lock and key until he’s sure his children are safe.

"No."

The twitch towards their firearms is more obvious, this time. Grant, at the very edge of his peripheral vision, has gone stiff. Dawson says, "It wasn't a request, Mr. Wilson. You need to come with us," like he actually thinks he's giving a warning.

Slade doesn't pretend to be affected. They don't threaten him. "I'm not leaving this room, officers. If you have questions, you can ask them here."

Their expressions tighten.

" _Dad…_ ” Grant says quietly, stressing the word. It's almost pleading. He's worried.

Slade takes a slow breath, reining in all the training that says to meet aggression face to face. Grant's right, even if he didn't actually say what he meant. Partially right, anyway. Flat refusal isn't going to get him anywhere useful, but that doesn't mean that he's going to capitulate. He's not leaving Joey alone. It's not going to happen.

He laces his fingers, straightening his back to sit at full height before he speaks. "My wife was murdered. My son's throat was slit. I can't say for sure that the men that did it were working alone, so I have no intention of leaving either of my sons alone until I'm sure they're safe. If you want to ask me questions, officers, I'll answer them. Anything you want to know." He narrows his eyes, lets his voice darken to a warning of his own. "But I'm not leaving this room, and frankly, neither of you have the training to make me. I'd rather not have to prove that."

There's silence. Dawson's actually gone a little pale.

He can see the pair of them trying to remember exactly what they read or were told about him. Maybe it only got as far as 'special forces.' Maybe it was deep enough for them to realize that most of his military history is an obscured mess of military intelligence's meddling and the word 'Classified' in big red letters. Or maybe they only read 'Army,' and it's just his size and build that are making them reconsider whether they really want to fight him on this.

He doesn't care.

Kirkley comes to the smart decision first. He straightens a little, breathes in as his weight shifts back enough to be obvious, at least to Slade. "Understandable, Mr. Wilson. We will need you to make an official statement and answer some questions for us, but I'm sure due to the situation it can be conducted here, or be delayed." He swallows. "We'll be in touch, Mr. Wilson. Our sympathies for your loss."

They don't run, but they certainly beat a retreat. Slade waits till the door's shut, and he can hear them striding off down the hall — little pause beyond the door there, first — before he leans back in the chair. It'll take them at least a couple hours to regroup. They'll look into his file if they haven't, and then they'll decide not to try and force him to do anything. It's an easy enough prediction. By the time they get themselves back here, he'll have an airtight version of events, and no investigation will ever find out who he is.

No more loose ends. No more paths back to his family.

"Dad," Grant says, suddenly. "Did you… mean that?"

Again, he bites back his automatic response. Softens it to, "Mean what?"

"That you—” Grant stops, clearly rethinks what he was going to say. Then, after a clearly bracing breath, restarts with, "Did you come get me to make sure I was safe?"

Slade's gaze flicks, unbidden, to the wrap of bandages at Joey's throat.

"It's not black and white," he says, but it comes out harsher than he meant. Grant doesn't flinch, but he does tense, as if expecting to be yelled at. Slade closes his eyes for the span of a breath, forces his voice to be steadier before he tries again. "It isn't just one thing or another. I came to get you because you should be here, Grant. Out of respect for your mother, and to be here for Joey. And also, because you're safer with me than you are out on your own in California. Until the men who took your brother are dealt with, or I'm sure you're better hidden, you stay with me."

Grant visibly considers that for a few moments. Then, a little suspiciously and a little disbelieving, "You told those cops that you weren't sure if the kidnappers were working alone. You lied to them, didn't you?"

It's good to know that his boy is at least clever enough to put pieces together, when he’s given them. Grant was always sharp as a kid. Apparently he still is. Slade will have to tell him the truth at some point, presumably.

The, "Yes," is easy enough. "The men I killed were working for someone else. I know who. But even if there was any evidence but my word, local police wouldn’t be able to even find him, let alone do anything about it. They’re better off thinking the matter’s closed; it'll get them out of my way."

Law enforcement could be a pain, if they think they've found some deep mystery. But if it's as simple as a military father killing kidnappers to save his son, they'll leave it be. There are privileges that come with being male, white, and ex-military in a state like this, with no criminal record. (At least not one that anyone has access to. There's no connection to his work that could constitute as evidence, he's made sure of it.) Murder is easy to get away with, as long as there's some reason it can be excused as self defense.

Besides, all the evidence will line up with his version of events. The knife used to hurt Joey has its wielder's fingerprints on it. The bullet that killed Adeline will match the gun it was fired from. The ones he used to kill the kidnappers will match his own gun, whenever they get around to asking for it. There's no reason to think that anything happened other than what he said.

"To do what?" Grant gets the courage to ask.

Kill them all. Give Adeline the vengeance she deserves. Wipe out anyone that thinks they can use his family against him. (Rip the Jackal's skin off, piece by piece.)

"Make sure this doesn't happen again."

Grant doesn't ask what he means. He's smarter than that. He breathes in instead, long and only faintly trembling, and leans back in the chair. His arms cross, fingers digging into the arms of his jacket. Slade lets him have his quiet. Joey hasn't moved. Not a change in anything.

The file, sitting there on the foot of the bed, draws his attention.

'Best position to help,' he said. 'Plenty of ways to live.' As if there's any return to normal after being crippled like that. His son isn't going to be able to just go back to school like nothing happened. He'll need adjustments, teachers that know how to work with a mute kid. He'll need to learn sign language, to be able to communicate in some way beyond writing.

Slade gets out of the chair. It only takes a step to reach the end of the bed and pick up the folder, flipping it open in one hand.

Recommended therapists specializing in child trauma. A kidnapping support and recovery group. Speech therapy. Information on several relatively local ASL classes, as if it isn't midway through the fall semester; they'll have long moved on past basics by now. Might be a decent place to start looking for a tutor, though. Or, he could just do it himself. Simpler to just pick up resources and learn it, then pass it on to Joey.

Grant and Rose should learn, too. She'll need some time to learn English anyway, so why not teach all of them sign language first, to give one common language? Better if they all have some way to communicate to each other, as well as him. He learns languages easily enough, now; ASL shouldn't be any more difficult than the Cambodian he picked up three days ago, or any of the ones before that. He'll have Billy pick up the right books.

He can spend his time on that, while he waits for the police to finish their 'investigation,' and while he does his own. He'll need a little time to track down where the Jackal is hiding, and then follow that thread to any others attached. Maybe he can convince Billy to learn it as well, to continue teaching when he leaves. Or Grant could take over.

Assuming Grant stays.

There's a little pamphlet in here, too. Colorful, big words, a damn smiley face. Condescending 'how to talk to your kid about their injury' bullshit. Useless. This isn't some broken leg or something. It's permanent. There's no sugarcoating it.

He'll save the contact information of the therapists. They might be useful. Slade's not qualified in that, and he doubts that his ability to memorize is going to be any use when it comes to child psychology. That's a matter of personality and attitude as much as book learning, as far as he understands it. Just because he could learn to analyze Joey's reactions doesn't mean he could do anything about it. Better to leave it to a professional, if Joey wants that.

Grant's not going to want to visit a therapist, he's sure of that. Not anytime soon, anyway. Rose would have to learn English before anyone local could even see her. Just Joey, then.

His ears pick up the difference first. A slight variation in the pattern of the heart monitor. He lifts his head. Joey's fingers twitch.

"Grant," he says, watching the beginning flicker of his son's eyelids, "flag down a nurse. He's waking up."

The chair scrapes as Grant gets up. Slade drops the folder back to the bed, moving up to the head of the bed. Joey's shifting slightly, the monitor's kicked up with the increased heart rate. Still slow, but Slade assumes that's due to whatever painkillers are in the IV. As far as he understands it, a properly done tracheostomy shouldn't need to be removed if Joey is conscious, but the ventilator attached might. If there's anything wrong, or his son panics, better to have someone already here. He doesn't have any experience with a procedure like this done in an actual hospital; field medical only included the slipshod version. Emergency inability to breathe only.

Slade carefully sits down on the edge of the bed, lifting Joey's hand out of the way and wrapping it in his own fingers. A precise finger over the base of Joey's wrist lets him feel the pulse, rising and falling in little starts as he begins to wake.

Grant's at the door, calling out to someone. Distantly Slade acknowledges that, tracks the footsteps that come closer, but his attention is focused on the faint flutter of his son's eyelids.

"Joey?" He keeps his voice quiet, stroking his thumb over the back of Joey's hand.

There's no sound, but Joey's brow tugs down into a frown, his eyes slowly managing to open roughly halfway, looking up at him. His mouth opens, nothing coming out but a faint wheeze. His eyes widen.

"Easy, don't try to talk," Slade murmurs, lifting his other hand to brush Joey's hair back, try to calm him. He can hear the door open behind him. "You're in the hospital, Joey. You're going to be okay. I'm here."

The nurse appears then, at the opposite side of the bed. Young, male. "Hey, Joseph, right? I'm David. Go ahead and nod if you can understand me."

Joey nods, eyes wide as he stares up.

"Great. The doctor's going to be here in just a couple minutes to check on you, now that you're awake, but I'm just going to do a couple quick tests before he gets here, alright?" It could easily be rhetorical questions, but David waits for Joey to nod again, anyway. "Alright. Good. Let's get started then, buddy."

Grant comes up behind him, staying a few feet back, but when Joey glances back he clearly sees him. His eyes light up with surprise, and his lips form the word 'Grant,' even though nothing comes out.

"Hey," Grant says, voice uncertain, rough.

Joey actually smiles, just a little, before the nurse calls his attention back.

Slade looks back, finding Grant with his arms crossed, standing close enough he could reach out, if he thought it was a good idea. It's not, though, so he only offers a small nod, instead. Acknowledgement, before he returns his attention to what the nurse is doing.

Joey's fingers wrap around his hand and squeeze.

He keeps his touch gentle, mindful of the thin, small fingers in his own, and squeezes back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back everyone! Time for some more Wilson family drama, featuring every member of this family being goddamn useless at communication, like dear god. Billy might as well be their official translator and ambassador at this point. Have fun, all!

Six weeks. It takes six weeks for Slade to track down a hint of where the Jackal has gone into hiding. He's found others affiliated with the man, gathered all the information he could on where to start his hunt, but it's not some newly empowered dictator or high-profile CEO that he's tracking this time.

The Jackal is a highly skilled professional that knows he's put himself in the crosshairs. He's hidden, and he's hidden well. Striking any of the people that work with or for him would make him find an all new place to squirrel away; might as well shoot off a couple warning shots in the air as well. If the Jackal is tipped off, then he has to start over, and it isn't that he doesn't have the patience for that, but he has no intention of waiting for his vengeance. Adeline deserves to have her death repaid now, not in six months, or a year. If the delay of a couple more weeks means he can strike right for the throat instead of hoping his shot hits something lucky, so be it.

It's not a waste of time, either. Joey's back home, well enough to be out of the hospital and the constant monitoring, even though he hasn't healed quite enough yet to be without supervision. There's a very strict set of instructions sitting on the kitchen counter in case anyone else needs to read them, while Slade's memorized it already. Different medications, changing of the bandage, cleaning of the remainder of the wound, and etc. He's doing well enough.

He hasn't recovered any ability to speak. Slade didn't really think he would, but the confirmation of it sits heavy in his stomach. Joey can breathe out nearly sub-vocal syllables, but otherwise he's lost nearly all capacity to make sound, as far as they can tell. Though the physician did stress that they shouldn't push for anything until preliminary healing is complete, and the physical therapist would be the one guiding any sort of exercise in that regard, and she's only had a couple appointments with him so far, so maybe it's too early to know for sure. Slade's never believed in holding out optimistic hope. Better to prepare for the worst than be blindsided by it.

Other than that, though, things have gone more or less fine. Grant's back in his room, sticking as close to Joey as seems physically possible, for the most part. Billy's been in and out, aiding where needed. 'Translating,' he calls it. Local law enforcement is finalizing their investigation, but it hasn't gone much of anywhere. They seem inclined to think that the kidnappers Slade killed were just seeking a ransom or to lure him out due to his past military connections, and were likely working alone, and Slade doesn't feel the need to dissuade any of that. He doesn't need them in his way. They've taken his statement at face value, and whatever it is that Joey relayed to them (which he doesn't know, annoyingly; no voice to overhear, and he didn't get any look at whatever was written down) doesn't seem to have contradicted it in any way that they haven't dismissed.

Slade's fairly sure Joey remembers more than he's let on to anyone. There have been some odd looks, here and there. Nothing that's direct confirmation, but Slade has his suspicions, regardless. Well, either Joey will say something at some point or he won't; Slade has no intention of doing it for him, and no intention of bringing Deathstroke into the picture until things are more settled. Things are already complicated enough with Rose added to the mix.

He picked her up just after they were able to bring Joey back home, to introduce her. Grant didn't take it well. Joey mainly looked upset as opposed to anything else, which Slade will take as easier to deal with than Grant's slammed doors and cold shoulder. Neither of them have put together the timing yet, as far as he knows, or at least Grant hasn't started yelling at him about abandoning their family and it being his fault Adeline was killed. Probably best it stays that way for now. Rose can't communicate with them particularly well anyway, not with the highly scattered English she knows, so it's not like she can tell them that he had to rush back to all of them because he was a country away getting her. Billy would probably tell him off for being glad of that, but Billy doesn’t have to know.

They’re working on the English, a bit. She's picking it up fast. The sign language for the boys, on the other hand, is… slow. Grant's hardly been speaking with him at all, and apparently not even being taught sign language for the sake of his little brother has been enough to make him get over that.

The sulking is familiar, actually, though Slade finds his own responses to it different. It’s still frustrating that Grant can’t seem to get over his irritation long enough to learn something to help make Joey’s new life easier, but the uncooperativeness doesn’t truly anger him like it used to. He understands why Grant is behaving like he is; it’s fair. He doesn’t need to discipline his son just for expressing his anger at a situation he has every right to be angry about; fear would only be temporarily effective, and besides, the rules in place are clear enough. If he lays a hand on Grant, his son will leave. Defeats the purpose.

Slade's started looking into the potential of local tutors. He's still sure that a college class wouldn't be nearly as helpful as more focused teaching, but Grant clearly isn't interested in learning from him. Not right now, anyway, and waiting for that to change isn't efficient. The options for specialized teaching in a small town like theirs aren't many, though. If the professor at the college running those classes is decent, maybe Slade will discuss hiring them for private lessons.

So there's been plenty to occupy his time. Grant. Joey. Rose… All of them need his attention, all in different ways, and it always seems to be at the same time. It's probably only the fact that he's enhanced that lets him handle all of it and still have time for anything else. He doesn't need as much sleep as a normal human; most nights he stays awake, hunting down every fragment of information he can get his hands on, compiling his knowledge into something useful.

Six weeks.

Six weeks, but he _has_ him.

Billy somehow sees the difference the moment he steps into the kitchen to join Slade where he's started making breakfast, the morning after his efforts finally bear fruit.

"You've found the Jackal," Billy says, taking a seat at the table. It's not a question.

Slade tilts his head to listen for the kids. Still in their rooms, best he can tell. Moving around, but not out yet. "Yes," he confirms. "Russia. Off the grid, in the wilderness."

Billy frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. "So I take it you're going to be leaving?"

He hums confirmation as he scoops the eggs from the pan and out onto plates. More for Grant; he's bigger. Likes to eat, still, even if he doesn't like to talk. "You already eaten?"

"No." Billy watches him collect and crack another couple eggs from the refrigerator. "You and I need to talk about that."

Billy wouldn't try to convince him not to go. He has to know— He _knows_ that Slade can't just walk away. It has to be about something else.

"Kids aren't here yet," he points out. "Talk."

Billy glances towards the door. "Alright, then." He leans back a bit, eyes narrowing. It's the same expression he used to get looking over maps, studying the lay of the land to put together the best strategy. Slade must be the land, in this analogy. "I understand you have to do this; I won't stop you. But I want to be clear about this before you go running off, Slade.” There’s a pause, apparently so that Slade can turn and actually look at him. “I'm _not_ going to take care of your kids."

His eyes narrow.

"I'll watch them while you're gone," Billy continues, before Slade can ask exactly what it is he thinks he's talking about, "and if something happens to you, I'll make sure they go to a good home. A safe one. But I've never wanted kids and you're not going to be pushing yours on me. You need to decide whether that's a risk you're willing to take, first of all. Is that understood?"

Slade crosses his arms. The pan sizzles away, behind him. "Understood."

"Good. Secondly, while you're gone you need to decide if this is what you want." A finger taps the table in front of Billy, and holds there. "This life, right here. If you're going to be a father to those kids, you have to actually be here, Slade. You can't be running off for weeks at a time on your jobs, flying cross-country and putting yourself on the hit list of anyone wanting revenge for what you do. They deserve a stable home, with a parent that's actually around, and if you can't be that then you need to give them to someone who can. I won't fill in for you like Adeline did. Not permanently. It has to be these kids, or Deathstroke."

He doesn't say anything. His jaw tightens, fingers digging into his arms hard enough it aches.

Footsteps come down the hall.

Slade turns around to grab the stack of ready toast, add those to the plates before they get here. Jam's pulled out for Grant already. Plain for Joey. Rose likes hers with honey; it's already smeared on. He takes the plates into his arms to head to the table as Joey wanders in, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and still in his pajamas. He takes the seat next to Billy, blinks up at them both. Slade sets the right plate down in front of him. Spreads the others out to the other seats. Circles back to save the eggs for Billy, before they can burn.

By the time he's put those on a plate too, and started grabbing glasses for water or juice, respective to the person, the other two have joined them as well. Grant's dressed, of course. He doesn't like being in any set of clothes that doesn't give him the choice to run out the door at any moment. That's Slade's opinion, anyway. Rose has her set of pajamas, too. New ones; they had to get her an actual wardrobe once she was here, and for whatever reason she wanted the bright purple ones with sparkling zigzag, so, that's what she has. She seems happy with them.

"Good morning," Billy is the first to say.

"Morning," Grant echoes, in the middle of smearing the jam onto his toast. He doesn't look up.

Rose is the second to speak. She knows the greetings now, but chooses to answer in Cambodian. " _Good morning!_ "

"And in English?" Slade prompts, distributing the glasses.

It's quick. "Good morning!"

He nods, finally taking his seat as well. "Joey?"

Joey lifts his head, and his hands. There's only a slight moment of hesitation before he signs a restrained _'good morning_ ' of his own, careful not to hit the table, or his plate. A bit stiff, but serviceable.

"Good."

There's a few moments of silence as everyone begins to eat, except Billy. Billy watches him for a few moments instead, while Slade settles into place and takes the first bite of his eggs. Needs a bit more salt. He reaches for it.

"Your father has something to tell you all," Billy announces, apparently deciding this is information that needs to be immediately brought out into the open.

Slade hadn't been planning on bringing it up till after everyone had eaten, and ideally not until he was ready to leave, but fine. Now's as good a time as any. Rose doesn't quite have enough of a grasp on English to understand what Billy's said, based on the first look of confusion, but she seems to cue off of how Grant and Joey come to attention, meals being set aside in favor of focusing on him.

Well, fine then.

He sets down the salt, and his fork. "I found the man responsible for your mother's death. I'll be leaving later today." He considers, as Joey's eyes widen, how long he'll need to root out Jackal, and anyone else he might have told. Slade settles on, "I'll be gone two weeks, give or take a couple days. It shouldn't be longer than that. Billy will take care of you till I'm back."

Joey looks like he wants to say something, hands twitching upwards but not forming anything recognizable before Grant beats him to it. "What are you going to do?" his son asks, tone showing clear enough what he thinks should be the answer, at least.

Slade agrees with that particular sentiment. "Take care of him. Permanently."

For what might be the first time, the anger in Grant's eyes doesn't seem to be aimed at anyone at their own table. "Good."

Joey hesitates somewhat, glancing between the two of them with his hands hovering. He starts to make a sign and stops, obviously struggling for a moment. For far from the first time, Slade nearly just tells him that he can read lips and to speak whatever he wants to say regardless of whether sound accompanies it. And for far from the first time, he shuts the impulse down before the words can leave his tongue. It won't do Joey any favors to let him communicate like that, when the amount that will understand it is minuscule. He has to learn.

So instead he grunts and leans back, stretching out his arm to reach for the notepad and pen sitting at a small corner table, just barely within range. Should consider moving it. "Here."

Joey takes it with a flicker of a smile, and immediately flips it forward a couple pages past any lingering writings from the last times. When he turns it back around, there's a scrawled, _'_ Was he there that night?'

Even though Slade already knows the answer to the question, the memories still flash back behind his eyes in vivid, clear picture. He sees the knife again, sees the dark crimson blood that sprays into the air, hears the gunshot that took Adeline, and the crumpling thud of her hitting the floor. Then he blinks, and banishes all of that back to the recesses of his mind. "No. He ordered it."

Joey takes it back and starts to write again, but Grant cuts in with a sharp, "Who is he?" Joey stops writing, so there's a decent chance that's what he was going to ask, too.

It probably can't do much harm to give them some of the information. "He goes by 'Jackal.' Aliases are common in that line of work."

"What line of work?"

"Terrorism."

Grant's expression contorts, confusion coming first and foremost. "Why would a terrorist kidnap Joey? What did he want?"

He would have preferred to avoid this part of the conversation, but he's had long enough to think about precisely what he's going to say and what he isn't that he isn't caught unawares. "I don't know," he starts, simply enough. All a lie. "During my time working for the military, I was sent after some members of the organization he's part of. My assumption is it has something to do with that."

Joey's gaze snaps upwards, all of a sudden. Staring, with wide eyes and easily recognizable realization.

So, Joey remembers. At least enough of it to remember that the kidnappers were very clear about what they wanted. Possibly to remember that they asked _who_ gave him the contract, and if he recalls that, he must recall that Slade was wearing the Deathstroke uniform at the time. Not that he'd know what it was. Though they certainly called him by his name there, so if Joey can recall enough of it, and if his son is smart enough to put it together (Slade doesn't doubt that), it wouldn't be that hard.

Now's not the time to deal with any of that.

"I'll be leaving after I've packed," Slade says, pulling his gaze away from Joey. "Now eat your breakfasts; if you have questions you can ask them when you're done."

There's a nod from Grant, and that seems to jerk Joey back into the real world as well. Rose looks confused, more than anything, and Slade's not surprised. She wouldn't know nearly enough English to have understood most of that. Not yet. So, when the boys go back to eating, Slade turns his attention to her. It's simple enough to give her a quick recap of what's been discussed in Cambodian, so she understands what's happening. Just enough for her to know that he's leaving, that it's about the boys' mother, and that he'll be back soon enough. He adds on, after a moment of thought, that she can rely on Billy to take care of anything she needs.

Not that Billy understands Cambodian, but it will have to do. Surely, she can figure out how to signal to him what she needs; she's old enough to be able to communicate that, and smart enough to figure out how even without knowing most of the language.

She seems less concerned with it than the boys, but that makes sense, too. She's not quite old enough (he doesn't think) to fully grasp the implications of everything, and she doesn't have any connection to Adeline. Never knew her. There's also the difference in where Rose came from, compared to his boys. She's seen death already. She's probably not going to shrink from the idea of a little violence.

Billy doesn't seem to think that breakfast requires any more unnecessary interruptions. He doesn't demand any more conversation, and as has mostly been the case with 'family' meals, there isn't much that happens naturally. The only ones of them that can speak freely are Billy, Grant, and Slade himself, and Grant hasn't much wanted to speak to them. Maybe he still doesn't, or maybe he's just too busy thinking about everything, but this morning doesn't seem to be any different than any other.

When everyone's finished, and Billy's volunteered to clean up the dishes, Slade heads to his room to pack. He doesn't need much. A few changes of clothes, some essentials. There are a couple of guns in the safe here that he's planning on taking, but all of his specialized gear is stored elsewhere; he'll pick it up on the way.

He's half expecting Joey to come in, to try and talk to him about the discrepancies between what he remembers and what Slade's said, but it's Grant that shows up at the threshold of the room. He lingers there for a moment as Slade looks up, finishing folding the shirt in his hands and then reaching for another. Grant's tense, jaw clenched. Doesn't look like anger, though.

After a couple more moments where he hovers at the door, Grant takes a wary step inside. Slade watches him, dropping the folded clothes into the suitcase, but lets him take his own time to speak.

Grant visibly gathers his courage, and then says, "I want to come with you."

It's not what Slade was expecting. Obviously it can't happen, though. Grant doesn't have any combat training, and he doesn't have any idea what it is he's trying to volunteer for. If he came, he'd be a liability, and he'd be in danger. Slade's not going to take his oldest son right into the hands of the man that ordered his younger one kidnapped, to let the one part of his family the Jackal hasn't touched yet be tainted, too. That's before he even takes into account the fact that Grant would have to see what and who he is for that to be even remotely feasible, and on the hunt to find and kill the man that murdered his mother is far from an ideal time for him to find any of that out.

Which means the answer is simple.

"No."

Grant's shoulders tense. "She was my mother. I _deserve_ to get to help bring him down."

Slade drops the handful of cloth and turns, facing Grant head on. "This isn't some schoolyard bully. He's a dangerous, likely highly trained terrorist with weaponry and a network protecting him. You don't know how to fight, you don't know how that world works, and you're not prepared to do what you'd have to, even if you did have any clue what this is going to entail. I won't have the time to teach or watch you. You're not coming."

Grant's hands are clenched tight at his sides, his chest rising in sharp, quick breaths. "You haven't changed at all," his son spits, and spins around to stalk out.

Not ideal, but he'll get over it. Better he's angry than he does something stupid and gets hurt.

Slade gets back to packing, but it's only about two minutes before Billy appears in his door instead, glaring at him even as he shuts the door.

"You need to go down there and talk to Grant," he demands, with no preamble.

Slade frowns. "Why?"

Billy's teeth flash as his voice rises. "Because somehow you managed to give him the impression that you're not going to let him help avenge his mother's murder because he's weak and useless!"

The frown pulls deeper. "That's not what I said."

"Well it's still what he _heard_ , so whatever you said, you said it badly." Billy takes a breath, squeezing the bridge of his nose between thumb and pointer finger. "You're going to go down there, you're going to talk to him, and you're going to fix this. Because if you don't, he'll be gone by the time you get back. Do you understand that?" Billy's hand drops, shoulders pulling back. "Those kids aren't mindreaders, Slade. They don't know you like I do, and _I_ can barely understand what's behind your bullshit half the time. If you want them to know what you mean, you have to tell them, and if you don't they're not going to stick around for long. Is that what you want?"

"No."

"Then go fix it."

Slade intensely dislikes being pushed into doing anything, but Billy isn't… wrong. Not completely anyway, even though he's being patronizing and that makes Slade want to refuse on principle. Just because this isn't his area of expertise doesn't mean he needs his hand held, or every word criticized. Billy knows better than to try and lead him by the balls like this.

(But it's Grant, and he can't afford to screw this up again.)

He lets the lid of the suitcase fall shut, only half-full. "Fine."

Billy's eyes narrow. "And what are you going to say?"

Slade bites down on the irritation. "I'm going to tell Grant that he misunderstood."

"And?"

And…? What else does Billy want him to say?

"Christ, you constipated bastard, tell your son you _care_. Tell him you won't take him because you're afraid you won't be able to keep him safe. Tell him you don't think he's weak, or useless, you just don't want to see him hurt!" Billy glares at him. "He's your _son_. He's _seventeen_. Just give him one reason to think that his father doesn't hate him."

Slade crosses his arms. "I don't."

"So go _tell him that_." Billy steps to the side, getting out of the way of the door. "Right now."

Slade doesn't move forward immediately. He bristles first, not appreciating being told what to do, not appreciating it being a demand. But he bites that back behind his teeth along with the irritation, swallows it down.

"Fine."

Billy watches him as he walks to the door, and as he leaves. He pauses in the corridor for a moment, shutting his eyes to listen. Concentrating, it's easy to hear where the kids are in the house. Grant — the loudest footfalls, down in his room — only takes a couple moments to identify. He heads down the stairs. He knocks with his knuckles on the closed door, but doesn't wait for an answer before opening it, stepping into the gap.

Grant's stiff and still near the center of the room, hands balled to fists and eyes red-rimmed. "Get out," he says, a bit of a wobble to his voice, undermining the hard demand of the words.

Slade knows before he does it that Grant won't appreciate it, but he still takes a step forward and pushes the door shut behind him. As anticipated, Grant takes half a step back and goes even tenser than he already was. It's violating the rules Slade agreed to, he knows it, but walking back out isn't going to accomplish what Billy's pointed out to him. (Aggressively. Annoyingly. Accurately.)

He crosses his arms, stays in front of the door. "I've been told that what I said might have come across the wrong way."

Grant stares at him. Uncertainty practically bleeds from his pores, but he doesn't say anything.

"I don't think you're weak," Slade starts, deciding to get the obvious out of the way. "You don't have the training to do this; that's just fact. I have nearly two decades of military experience, including the survival training needed to track and hunt the Jackal. He could have that too, or more. He could have an army around him, or he could be waiting for me. I can't be sure. I'm not going to put you in that kind of danger unless I have to."

Grant hesitates, arms crossing over his chest, gaze skittering down to the floor. "Why do you care?"

Slade frowns. Maybe Billy had more of a point than he thought. "You're my son."

"So?" Grant's gaze flickers up, on top of a glare. "You were never home. You let me run away. You don't care and you never did."

Hm. Grant's not entirely wrong, but he's not right either.

There's a chair just to the side of the door, left over from when Grant was just a boy and Slade used to get back in the middle of the night, wanting to check on his boys but not wanting to wake them. He'd sit and watch them till he felt settled, till everything fell back into place and his body understood that he was home again. He steps to the side and sits down in it now, clasping his hands together in his lap as he leans back and considers what he's going to say.

"I ran away from home," he admits. Grant's only the second person to know that, actually. Billy found it out, a while ago, but it's not something he ever told Adeline, or anyone else.

Grant's weight shifts, his glare fading somewhat in the face of the new information, struggling to maintain itself. When he speaks, his voice wavers. "Really?"

"Mm. I was fifteen; it was stupid. If the recruiter hadn't needed to pad his numbers, I would have been marched straight back." He remembers that clearly enough. The recruiter looking over the table, sighing, ' _you're not eighteen, kid,_ ' at him. It still went his way. "I faked the signature of my father and pretended that I was sixteen, and he looked the other way. Those days, the military didn't care to check things as much, so long as you were willing to stay." He shrugs, holding Grant's gaze. "When you left, I assumed you'd find your own way. Like I did. You were settled in California by the time I thought any different. I kept track of you, in case you needed help. Didn't seem like you did."

Grant takes a step back, and slowly sits down on the end of the bed. His arms are still crossed. "Oh. I didn't know you looked. I just thought…” The fingers Slade can see contract, till the skin underneath whitens from the pressure. He doesn't finish the sentence, just skips to, "You've never talked about my grandparents. Mom said her parents died, but…”

"There's nothing to talk about. Your grandmother died shortly before I joined the military. I haven't seen your grandfather since I left, and if he is still alive, I don't have any intention of introducing any of you to him." It almost surprises him, how fast those words come to his tongue, and how true they feel once he's said them.

He's not a good father. He knows that. But he's not a bad enough father that he's got any intention of introducing his children to the kind of man he remembers his own being. He's done enough damage as it is, and besides, none of them need to know the details of how he was raised. It's not important. The only thing that's important from now on is keeping them safe.

"Grant," he starts, a bit more slowly before he picks up, "if I thought this was safe enough there would be minimal risk, I'd take you with me. But right now I can't guarantee you'll be unharmed, and as far as I'm concerned that's unacceptable. I need you to stay here, with Billy; he'll keep you safe until I get back. Understand?"

Grant doesn't look particularly happy, but he doesn't seem to be furious anymore. That's probably a step in the right direction. "Yeah, alright."

"Good." He pauses to consider for another moment, as he thinks about how quickly all that went south. Clearly, Grant doesn't understand him, and clearly, he doesn't understand Grant. That's a problem. He should take steps to ensure that this doesn't happen again. "Ask me, next time."

Grant squints. "… What?"

"The next time you think I've said you're weak or useless, ask me before you assume that's what I meant. Or ask Billy; he'll know."

"Oh." Grant's arms finally uncross, his hands pushing at his thighs instead. "Okay."

Good. That's settled then.

Slade gets to his feet. "I'll be leaving once I've packed. If there's anything you need before I go, you have a bit to think of it."

He's stepped up to the door, opened it to step through, when Grant says, "Dad?"

He looks back.

"You... You'll make him pay, right? For mom?"

Slade narrows his eyes, holding Grant's gaze. "Yes, and for Joey. I promise."

Grant breathes out. "Alright."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes, Slade, because putting the entirety of the onus to communicate on your teenage son is an entirely healthy and sustainable course of action.)
> 
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


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